


Flesh Becomes Water

by inlovewithnight



Category: Hornblower (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-11
Updated: 2011-04-11
Packaged: 2017-10-17 22:56:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/182191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inlovewithnight/pseuds/inlovewithnight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>The supernatural being in question is mainly based on the Russian <i>rusalka</i>, but as noted, it's a fairly common mythological trope.  The notion of drying out the hair to destroy it is specifically Russian.</p></blockquote>





	Flesh Becomes Water

The nights seemed endless.

Onboard ship, the hours allotted for sleeping were never enough. Weariness seeped down into the bones, becoming as much a part of the day as watered rum and hard biscuits. Here, though, tucked away behind prison walls, there was no structure to the days, no rhythm, nothing but empty hours. The enforced idleness, the lack of even make-work to absorb the body and mind, the hypnotic and repetitive _nothing_ was enough to make Horatio seriously consider the possibility that he would entirely lose his senses.

They did not need sleep, yet had nothing else to fill the hours. It seemed Archie had grown accustomed to the idle, drifting state; his body was content to be still. Horatio would not or could not adapt. He was constantly restless, seeking action or at the very least distraction. His mind was idle and as a result and his body plagued him, demanding to be used, to exhaust itself somehow. He spent the hours of his parole each day walking along the coast, seeking to wear the edge off his restlessness. If he did not have his dignity to consider, he would have run along the sand, attempted to scale the cliffs, flung his body into the waves and struggled against the ocean. But consider his dignity he must, and so he walked. It was not anything close to adequate, either to quell his boredom or to exhaust his needs.

And then night would come, and it was worse, having his helpless restlessness contained to the space of his bed. He chose the lower bunk, hoping its proximity to the packed-dirt floor meant that it would place it below the layer of muffling, heated, motionless air that had choked him when he tried to sleep above. In truth, he couldn’t tell the difference, and if he could it likely wouldn’t matter. The heat was only a part of the trouble, after all.

Wild and nonsensical visions ran circles behind his eyes, shreds of memory and dreams and unsettling surges of desire. It was still summer here, the air motionless and heavy against him, and dull heat throbbed under his skin. His hands roved over the rough blanket, the bed frame, the wall; they clenched into fists or raked through his hair, restless and helpless.

He was uncomfortably aware of the other person in the small room, the presence of a fellow officer. Beyond that, the presence of a friend; he had never ceased to think of Archie so, and over the course of their stay here in El Ferrol, he had dared to begin to think that Archie might consider him in the same light once again.

He couldn’t recall if he had been so aware of Archie’s presence in the close quarters of the midshipmen’s bunks, so long ago, or any of his other fellows aboard ship. But he was aware now, every breath Kennedy took and every creak of the bunk reverberating through Horatio’s body like the shiver in the air before a storm. He shied away from examining too closely the awareness, the physical sensation, or the patchwork assemblage of nonsense in his dreams. Best to ignore it, harden his will, wait for it to pass. Eventually it would, after God knew how much time lying there in the dark, feeling his blood moving through his veins thick and hot, and waiting.

And eventually he would manage to sleep, passing through the empty hours of the night only to wake too early and begin another empty day. Converse with Archie and the men, and perhaps the Don if chance saw fit to award him an eventful day indeed. Walk the same route along the coast each afternoon, eat the same food each meal, stare at the underside of the same bunk each night, and wonder why it was that two worlds of stultifying routine--school and the Navy--had suited him so exactly, while prison seemed slated to drive him mad.  
***  
Don Massaredo was fond of Horatio, Archie knew, or at least amused by his youthful ideas of honor and pride. It was no great surprise that the man would offer his young pet parole to walk up to the village, if he wished. It was even less of a surprise when Horatio refused to go unless Archie was granted permission as well.

Archie was somewhat surprised when the Don _did_ grant it, though.

"An actual town?" Archie asked, laughter bubbling up through the words. "Seeing people who don't wear uniforms? How will we stand it, Horatio?"

"With customary English grit, I suppose," Horatio said, smiling faintly, waiting for Archie to finish pulling himself into some semblance of neatness and respectability.

They were quiet on the walk to the village, Archie engrossed in the novelty of free air and fresh scenery and Horatio apparently content to observe and enjoy Archie’s happiness by proxy. It wasn’t a terribly long distance, but the ground was rough and steep enough that Archie grew tired quickly, and they sat down on a low stone wall outside the village to rest.

The excess of joy he felt at such a brief reprieve—a short and dusty walk to a small and sleepy village—left Archie himself as slightly bemused as his companion seemed to be, judging by the faint smile on Horatio’s face. It was in the same vein as the giddiness Archie had felt every time he’d been granted shore leave from Justinian, which made sense, he supposed. It was the same situation, a temporary escape from a choking routine in a place where horror lurked just past the edge of one’s sight.

 _If this was shore leave_ , he thought, tilting his head back to feel the warm breeze over his skin, _there would be certain things presumed required._ Drinking themselves insensible, first and foremost. That was an uncompromising Naval tradition. And immediately following that, the equally important tradition of finding oneself a bit of pleasant and not-overly-expensive company…

“What are you thinking on so intently, Archie?” Horatio asked, nudging at Archie’s ankle with his foot.

“Nothing of importance,” Archie chuckled, kicking dust over Horatio’s shoes in return. “Just that if we had such a free and idle afternoon at in another set of circumstances, I’d consider it my duty as a friend and fellow officer to stand you for a tankard and a girl.”

The idea brought a sudden lift of Horatio’s eyebrows, and a flush of red above his collar, and Archie was on to both signs in an instant. He remembered this from their service together as well, having a bit of a game with Horatio, teasing him until he blushed and stammered and ducked his head. Not difficult to do and great fun to watch, as he recalled it, and so he immediately set into his friend with enthusiasm.

They soon left the wall and began walking through the little town, watching the rhythm of its daily life in motion and being stared at as foreign curiosities in turn. Try as Horatio might to turn the topic to the weather or livestock or a passing dungcart, Archie brought it back around again easily. It gripped his tongue for no reason he really could have said, no logical explanation for why he teased Horatio relentlessly until his friend whirled to face him and snapped, "I'm sorry to disappoint you, Mr. Kennedy, but I must remind you that _whatever_ my desires, we as prisoners lack funds for such a thing."

He'd stepped close to spit the words through clenched teeth, close enough that Archie could feel the heat rising from his flushed skin. His eyes were bright with irritation and something else, dark and anxious, and Archie didn't have a word for it.

Nor for the feeling that drove him into the tiny pawnshop on the corner, where he stripped the buckle from his belt and handed it to the old man behind the counter. Nor for the sinking tightness in his stomach when he stepped back into the street and pressed the money into Horatio's hand.  
***  
The girl was probably quite young, Horatio thought, but she was bold and worldly like any woman of a port town, holding her head proudly and tossing her dark hair. She didn't speak a word of English, but smiled broadly at the flash of silver in Horatio's hand, gathering her skirts and following him into an alley.

Archie waited in the street, leaning his head back against the tavern wall, an odd look on his face as if he’d suddenly forgotten just what had been so very funny about the joke. Horatio hadn’t seen the humor in the first place, but once committed it would hardly be honorable to retreat, or to permit another to do so. He took firm hold of Archie’s elbow, not releasing him when he jumped but pulling him sharply into the alley.

"Well, come on, then" Horatio snapped, swallowing hard against the sudden dryness in his throat "You were so damn insistent, I just assumed you'd want to witness."

There was no reply to that, which was likely best; if he had tried to apologize or defer, Horatio was in no mood to accept it. Horatio’s pulse was pounding in his temples and his chest, but seemed to have left his limbs altogether; his hands were cold and trembled slightly as he released Archie and turned toward the girl. Archie fell back a pace or two behind Horatio as he approached her, impatient to get on with it and be done so Archie would drop the damned subject for the rest of the afternoon. It would be a blessing to be permitted to talk about anything else.

The girl waited ten or fifteen paces in, a small, bored smile on her lips, leaning back against the wall with her skirts hiked to her knees already. Horatio unbuttoned his trousers with sharp, angry motions as he approached her, embarrassment and annoyance swirling together in his mind and heating his skin with an uncomfortable blush. He gripped her shoulder and looked her over quickly. She _was_ young, and darkly pretty, and seemed slightly bored with the whole thing. He supposed he couldn’t blame her. Any occupation must grow tiresome after a time, after all— even the business of sin.

She smiled at him, sweetness painted on like English whores put on color, and slid her hand down his body until she could take him in her hand and coax him to action. She murmured in Spanish, words that tumbled and flowed together and passed as utter nonsense to his ears. He closed his eyes and shut them out with the pounding of his heart and the heating of his blood as she touched his body with what some detached part of him had to admire as practiced efficiency.

Another moment and he permitted her to kiss him, grinding their mouths together in a businesslike way, before he pushed her more firmly against the wall and raked her skirts up to her waist. If completing the mechanics in a timely manner was acceptable to her, as it seemed to be, he was more than happy to oblige. This hadn’t been his idea in the first place, after all. He pushed into her flesh and she sighed prettily, rolling her head to the side and moaning encouragements that were the same in any language.

He turned his head to find Archie, looking over her smooth, dark hair as he braced himself over her, against the wall, only half of his mind on the pleasure of his body and the rest occupied with the details of remaining upright. Archie was watching, unblinking, his lips compressed and his mouth twisted as if the scene before him was not what he expected to see. _Terribly sorry_ , Horatio thought, closing his eyes as he pressed the girl harder against the wall, thrusting faster, his body nearing the edge. _Shame that it wasn’t what you wanted._  
***  
Archie felt as if someone had pulled a blade out of his chest when Horatio finally looked away. Horatio’s eyes had been a slow twist of that blade, large and dark and at once angry and sorrowful as he stared into Archie’s eyes and fucked that girl against the rough brick wall of the alley. He hadn't breathed while Horatio looked at him like that, like Archie had broken some unspoken promise between them.

But the whole strange and awkward mess was over, thank God for that. Archie ran his hand anxiously over his hair and glanced back toward the street, wondering if there was any chance that this would be forgotten and set neatly aside by the end of the short walk back to the garrison.

"Are you sure you don't want a turn yourself?" Horatio asked curtly, closing up his trousers as the girl shook her skirts down and smoothed her hair.

"That's all right," Archie muttered, feeling somewhat sick for no reason he could name. By sailor’s reckoning it was only polite that Horatio should offer to share.

"Mr. Kennedy," Horatio said, the name almost unrecognizable in the brittle voice that emerged. He grabbed the girl's shoulders and yanked her around in front of him to face Archie. Two pairs of huge dark eyes stared at him, one startled and the other angry, but both confused at the heart. "You need release as well, don't you? Here. Take her."

She squirmed under his hands, protesting in Spanish. He ignored her, holding Archie's gaze with a wounded challenge in his eyes.

Archie found his throat was too dry to easily speak. "We haven't enough money," he said at last.

Horatio blinked, letting go of her and taking a step back. "Of course," he said, his voice abruptly flat and indifferent. He reached into his pocket and found the coins, handing them over without looking at her again. She tucked them into her bodice and hurried off, murmuring to herself and glancing at Archie in puzzlement. _I don’t know either_ , he thought after her. _I honestly have no idea at all._

"We have to be back by nightfall," Horatio said, moving past Archie and out of the alley. "We'd best start now."

His posture and tone were unmistakable, because he bore them often enough: he was offended. Archie wasn't certain why, or why there also seemed to be hurt in his eyes when he glanced back to be sure that Archie followed.  
***  
On most days, Horatio would pause to admire the beauty of the coastline and the country as he walked, but today he marched along near-blindly, unable to think far beyond his anger and embarrassment. _Damn it_ , he thought, an endlessly repeating beat of words matched to his footsteps. _Damn him, and damn her, and damn me for a weak-willed fool._

That was the worst of it, of course. How could he ever expect to gain his commission if he could not maintain control of his own body? His most secret and cherished dreams, of becoming a captain someday, of having a quarterdeck of his own--he had not permitted himself to indulge in those since the debacle of his examination, but even the memory of them filled him with helpless shame and frustration. Surely the captains of His Majesty's Navy were never overcome by weakness and desires of the flesh. They would certainly never falter so much that a fellow officer would become _aware_ of their weakness and--

 _Damn him._

His boot slipped on the uneven ground and he stumbled, too lost in his thoughts to catch himself before he landed painfully on his backside. He sat for a moment, glaring out at the sea. His eyes reflexively picked the horizon to ribbons, searching for a sail; he would give a great deal to be back out there, on the Indy, secure among the ebb and flow of routine that he knew as well as his heartbeat.

 _He would not be so close to me there._

It was an illogical thought. If anything, quarters aboard ship were even more intimate than those of the prison cell. But there would be other men there as well, creating distance with their noise and conversation; there would be none of the silent, precious intimacy that formed here in the evenings, so strange and fine that it made Horatio ache inside.

He stood and began to walk, faster now, as if he could outpace his thoughts, as if they were external demons instead of living inside him.

He had heard the Articles every Sunday he had been at sea, and before that he had gone to church, through his school years and his boyhood. For all that he had never found himself afire with faith, he knew the laws of God well enough. What he wanted was a sin, shameful and wrong. Bad enough to feel lust for whores and flirtatious women; worse to take that girl in the village as he had. A hundred times worse to admit that he felt the same lust for a comrade, a brother officer, a fellow man. A thousand times worse than that, even, that when he closed his eyes and slid his hand beneath the blankets to seek his release in the stifling heat of the cell, it was as likely to be Archie in his thoughts as any dockside girl he'd had since he joined the Navy.

Perhaps even more likely, since when Archie smiled at him it wasn't purchased and paid for, and when they laughed together, there was no edge of calculation. That had never bothered him when he was with the girls; it was the way of things, how such arrangements were made and how such needs were cared for, and Horatio had never been so foolish as to think that he could buck the way of the world. Besides, he enjoyed the girls, the act and the release, and could return to his duty clear of head and content of body. It was only in retrospect, and in comparison, and in the closed spaces of the prison cell and his own mind, that it had begun to bother him.

He would not permit himself to begin to speculate on what would happen if Archie were to find out. It was simply unthinkable, and so Horatio would not think it. Perhaps continued and constant efforts at bringing his mind to order would, in time, bear fruit. At any rate, there was nothing to gain from _not_ trying...

He stumbled again, nearly turning his ankle as his boot-heel slid over the rough, broken rock. He looked around and realized with a start that he had deviated from his usual path. Where he normally followed the trail as it curved up along the cliffs that allowed a grand view out over the ocean, this time he had wandered down the turnoff and found himself at the water's edge. Along this stretch, there was no proper beach, only jagged, rocky ground that required care and attention to navigate safely. That was no doubt why Miss Cobham had always chosen the higher path, and in her absence he had kept to it from habit.

He was alone now, though, and badly in need of distraction from his thoughts, and perhaps a bit of exploration would serve him well. Finding his balance again, he continued along the coast, focusing carefully now on where he placed each footfall, weaving his way in toward the cliff base so he could brace a hand against it for support.

He went a hundred yards or so, beginning to enjoy the bit of exertion, breaking out in a light sweat. He paused for a moment and caught his breath, squinting out at the light on the water and shivering. Quite suddenly, he felt cold.

That did not seem right; this was Spain, and still in the final curve of summer. Certainly when he had crouched in that stone tomb, with the sun pounding down on his head through the bars, he had never thought to be cold again. When he lay on his bunk in the cell, praying for the slightest motion of air to carry the oppressive heat from his skin, he had craved the icy chill of a night watch on the Channel at midwinter. But he never thought he'd find such cold in this sun-soaked place.

Here it was, though. A shallow turn in the coast sheltered a cave, a stony grotto carved by the sea, drowned at high tide, damp and dripping and smelling of brine and rot at low. He picked his way through the scattered rocks and sand on the cave floor, his boots splashing in the remaining shallow puddles, and let his eyes adjust to the darkness after the brilliant late-afternoon light.

He pressed deeper through the shadows, wrinkling his nose against the dank smell of the living rock. The ground broke ahead of him, a rocky shelf above the tide line. He stepped up onto it, squinting into the depths of the cave; this point was virtually the limit of light that could be of use to his eyes.

A faint glimmer of something moved in the dark, paleness that collected and cast back the faint light, and he stepped backwards, nearly falling off the shelf of rock as it resolved itself into a chalky-skinned young woman, dressed in white.

"Are you all right, miss?" he asked, forcing himself forward again. Her head was bowed, her dark hair falling forward to hide her face. She almost certainly didn't speak English, and his tentative grasp of Spanish had deserted him in his shock, but perhaps she would recognize a gentle tone. "Is no one here with you?"

She didn't respond, and he stepped closer, reaching out to touch her arm. Her skin was cool and damp as the walls of the cave, and he gasped as the chill of it seemed to flow through his fingertips, up his arm, and through his entire body in a flash.

She looked up, then, and he saw that her eyes were green, bright and brilliant green, nothing like the other Spanish women he had seen. Very green, and very bright, almost seeming to have a light of their own in the darkness of the grotto—

She smiled then, and caught his hand in hers, and if that first touch had been a shock of cold along his nerves, this was being plunged into a bath of ice, or the northern sea in winter. He gasped again, but that was all he could do; every muscle had gone instantly numb, every nerve unresponsive.

She pressed close up against him, and he realized that the fabric of her dress was soaking wet, dripping a trail onto the cave floor and seeping through his shirt, leaving it cold and clammy against his skin. He looked down into her eyes—yes, they certainly had a light of their own, they were _glowing_ , fiery inhuman green, like colored lanterns—and she brought her other hand up to the back of his head, her icy fingers tangling in his queue and bringing his face down for a kiss.

 _She tastes of the sea_ , was his last, puzzled thought, before the cold raced through him again, from her lips against his to his mind and his heart alike, and he didn't think anything more.  
***  
Archie was accustomed to being able to set a watch by Mr. Hornblower's departures and returns--well, a purely metaphorical watch, since he was in possession of no such instrument here. _Nothing but the clothes on my back and an unfortunate excess of imagination._

Horatio had been curt and distant since they got back from the village, but annoyance with Archie alone could not explain why he was late returning from his hours of parole. Horatio normally was placed back in the cell at the evening change of the guard, a generally efficient arrangement, but it had now been at least a quarter of an hour since the change, by Archie's reckoning, and no sign of him.

Archie flipped idly through the pages of _Don Quixote_ , hardly seeing the words, telling himself that of course it was foolish to be anxious. Probably Horatio was visiting with the Don. There was no reason to speculate any more dramatic reason for his tardiness. Doing so would be the behavior of a child, not an officer.

But he was once again alone in a cell that had held him in solitude for far too long, and every additional moment made the breath come shorter in his chest, and increased the difficulty of forcing rational thought past the raw panic bubbling up in his mind.

 _Left behind again--_ He cut the thought off before it could properly begin. No. That would not happen. Horatio would not do that.

The clang of the door broke him from his reverie, and he looked up to see Horatio being pushed gently into the cell. The guard was frowning and saying something sternly in Spanish. Horatio only smiled at him, a vague smile without a trace of comprehension, and the guard slammed and locked the door behind him.

"Where did you go off to?" Archie asked, pitching his voice to sound light and unconcerned, and cursing the catch in his throat that rather threatened to spoil the effect.

Horatio looked over at him, and his smile changed. It grew wider, and the look in his eyes oddly intent, as if once he had registered Archie's presence, everything else in the room ceased to exist in his judgment. "Archie," he said, his tone plainly delighted. "Hello, Archie."

"Hello." Archie blinked as Horatio stepped toward him, still smiling. "Why are you late?"

Horatio shrugged carelessly. "Lost track of time, I suppose."

Of all the things Archie never expected to hear from his reliable friend, that was right up there with _I've fallen in love with a French girl_ and _I've decided to leave the Navy, join the lobsters, and head off to the colonies._ He opened his mouth to question further, but suddenly Horatio was very close to him, sitting beside him on the bed, staring into his eyes like Archie was the only thing in the world.

"You're so lovely, Archie," he murmured, still smiling. Archie laughed, an anxious exhalation more of air than sound, but before he could do anything else Horatio's hands had come up to gently cradle his face, and Horatio was leaning forward, covering Archie's mouth with his own.

Horatio tasted like salt, and a distant part of Archie’s mind wildly thought about how tears and blood and semen and sea-water all left the same burn of salt on the tongue. And the sweat lying on Horatio’s skin, that was salty too, as they broke apart for a moment to breathe and Archie's mouth grazed across Horatio's cheek. Horatio groaned, his fingers clenching in Archie’s hair, and tugged him up again, claiming his mouth insistently.

Archie felt dizzy, overwhelmed by the heavy heat of Horatio’s body against his--pressed close, dear God, as close as if Horatio would smother him--the crush of Horatio’s lips, his tongue plunging deep into Archie’s mouth, probing, demanding. Like he was trying to take something from Archie, pull something out of him. The thought sent a thrill of fear through Archie’s body, enough that he broke the kiss and pushed away from Horatio, moving back across the bed and staring at his friend.

Horatio looked back at him, one eyebrow raised in a bemused question, his mouth soft and swollen from the fierce kisses, his eyes unreadable and dark. “Is something wrong, Archie?”

“You were kissing me.”

“I know.” Horatio smiled and eased forward toward Archie, pursuing him across the bed as gracefully as a cat, the motion eerie and strange on Horatio’s frame that normally moved with such control. “I should like to continue, if I may.”

“You may not,” Archie said, startling himself with his own vehemence.

Horatio blinked, and Archie braced himself, old instincts coiling in his stomach, preparing for his refusal to be ignored.

But Horatio only blinked again and sat back on his heels. “All right,” he said, smiling that odd smile again, like he knew some wonderful secret. “Only wanted to show you how much I care for you, Archie.”

“Horatio,” Archie said, fighting to keep the fear from his voice and managing only to keep it at the level of helpless desperation, “are you sure you’re all right? Nothing’s happened?” Perhaps this was some kind of game, or revenge for his own teasing in the village, hidden under a twist of seeming gentleness. He would never have thought Horatio capable of that kind of guile, but if Jack Simpson had taught him anything, it was how swiftly kindness could change to cruelty, and how easily a man could hold the same smile from acting on the one to the other.

Horatio’s smile grew wider now, a look Archie could never recall seeing on his friend’s face before. It frightened him. This wasn’t simple joy or contentment, but _bliss_ , verging on ecstasy, a state he could not reconcile with the rational Mr. Hornblower he knew.

Horatio reached out and patted Archie’s knee, his fingers brushing lightly over Archie’s thigh. “I’m perfectly all right, Archie. Wonderful, in fact. Everything is fine.”

He stood and crossed back to his bunk, blowing out the candle as he passed. Archie lay still in the dark for a moment, seeking to steady his breath and slow his heart. Eventually, he moved over to lie properly with his head on the pillow and went to pull up the blanket. Where the fabric had pressed between him and Horatio, it was damp and chilly, as if it had been wrapped around something wet from the sea. Salt feathered softly over the fibers. Archie stared down at it, confused and even more afraid, and it was a long time before he slept.  
***  
The days went by, easily blurred together and lost inside the dull sun-baked walls of the fortress. Archie could tell this recent stretch of days from the ones before by the rising unease in his stomach that grew with each passing sunset. No, not sunset--with each time Horatio returned from his walks. Something was not right.

Small things fueled the unease, trivial, nothing compared to that startling kiss, which Horatio had made no move to repeat. But Archie had been unsettled enough to watch closely now, to track Horatio's every action, and the fact that Horatio appeared not to notice that he was being observed was itself noted as an oddity.

He had always known Horatio to be restless, constantly in motion. Now he was still for long stretches of time, sitting and gazing off into the empty air. His hands no longer moved about, testing the grain of the table while he sat or fluttering about to sketch out a point when he spoke. They lay still as folded gloves, pale and waiting.

The somewhat desultory project to learn Spanish seemed entirely abandoned. Horatio would blink at the book as if he'd never seen such a thing, offer Archie that strange vacant smile, and murmur "Perhaps another time," before returning to his thoughts or his fantasies or whatever captured his attention so thoroughly that it seemed to carry him away from his body.

That smile...it troubled Archie, perhaps more than the stillness, more than the sudden loss of interest in learning. It was not that he disliked seeing Horatio happy; it was that there was no _reason_ for this happiness, no change in their circumstances that could explain it. A hallmark of the Horatio he had known before, and the one he had become reacquainted with here, was that there was always a reason. There were no startling leaps in Horatio, no logical fallacies. Or at least there had not been before now.

The cuffs of his trousers dripped water on the floor when he removed them for the night and folded them over the foot of the bunk. Sea-salt frosted his boots, his jacket, the place where his head rested upon the pillow. His skin, when he happened to touch Archie or brush against him--always with the same smile, always with an apology--was cool and slightly damp, as if he had been walking in fog instead of locked away in a Spanish prison in the final heat of summer.

Archie watched him, watched and noted each oddity and deviation, and he worried.  
***  
He had never known anything like it, not in all his quiet and dutiful and solitary life.

It wasn’t merely the clumsy carnal pleasure one found with a whore or from one’s own hand. It wasn’t the fleeting peace of mind that came from a duty well done, soon replaced by anxiousness over the next duty awaiting. This was contentment, perfect and absolute, and ecstasy of the spirit and body such as he had never dared imagine.

And it was all due to her. His beautiful, silent princess, pale and shining in the dim light of the cave. She never spoke; he did not even know her name. It didn’t matter. They communicated on a level deeper than words, a language of the soul, perhaps. Certainly one of the body.

Her hands...white as bone, and cold against his skin, but they knew him, knew exactly where to touch to set him afire with need and longing, fire that changed to ice as she continued, every stroke of her hands drawing the heat hungrily from his body. She would guide him down to the stony floor of the cave--and God, it was cold, cold! but he only ever noticed for a moment--and kneel at his side, lean over him and look at him and smile...

Her eyes would glow brighter green, like lanterns of colored glass used to dazzle children, and the soaked, clinging fabric of her dress would flow away like water, running down her cool pale skin to the floor and revealing her body.

And he would take her then, or perhaps she took him, it was all alike in the dark. At any rate, it was a consummation--a perfect union of flesh and soul, that left him feeling as if he had been entirely removed from his body, so much so that he would lie on the floor unable to stir for a long time after.

He left the cave each time cold to the bone, his skin wet and soaking through his hastily-donned uniform, drops of cool salty water running from his curls down his temples and his neck. The weak, waning sunlight was a shock against his skin as he staggered up the beach, back to the walls of the fort, finding his way more by memory and instinct than by any proper thought. His mind was pleasantly numb, still wrapped in the cool, silent bliss of the cave and his lover.

He would find his way back to the cell and Archie’s worried eyes--Archie whom he loved so dearly. That love had made him anxious, before. He had always been so anxious, so tense, so worried. Whyever for? There was nothing to be afraid of. She had told him so, he was quite certain, for all that he had never heard her voice. He simply knew. There was nothing to worry about anymore.

He smiled at Archie, murmured his pointless greetings and affirmations, and collapsed into his bunk and the deep and dreamless sleep that awaited him there, the sound of the ocean in his ears.  
***  
Archie sat on his cot, his knees drawn up to his chin, watching Horatio sleep. The restless sleep that had marked their weeks at Ferrol until recently was gone, as was the distinct flush from the heat on Horatio’s skin. Now he was pale--pale as the linen on the Kennedy tea table at home--and he slept as one dead.

That image left Archie uneasy, and he slipped from his bed to move closer to Horatio’s, standing over him and studying his face. Horatio’s mouth was relaxed, his lips parted. Archie knelt, cautiously though a barrage of cannon-fire likely wouldn’t have stirred Horatio, and looked closer. Horatio’s lips were tinged blue, as if he’d been submerged in water for hours. His veins were blue under the translucence of his skin, looking nearly black where the tissue was thinnest. His curls clung to his skin, heavy and tight with moisture. Archie felt his hands clenching into fists, and forced his teeth down on his lip to hold in a shout of frustration.

What in God’s name was going on?

He sat back, intending to stand, turn away, return to his cot for yet more fruitless and maddening worry. The motion caused his leg to brush against Horatio’s hand, where it dangled from the bunk. Archie glanced at it, soft from lack of anything to do here in prison, the long, fine fingers curled in toward the palm. He blinked, and looked closer--something was tangled around Horatio’s fingers, hidden in his sleeping hand. Archie reached out and gently teased it free.

A few strands of long, dark hair. Straight and soft, so not Horatio’s own; a woman’s hair.

He stared down at the feather-light evidence in his hand. Was this the key to the secret, then? Horatio had a lover? One who, perhaps, lived in a palace of ice?

Before his eyes, the hair shifted. It grew thicker, fatter, slimy and deep green. Within a few breaths from prying the strands out of Horatio’s hand, Archie found himself holding a clump of seaweed.

He swallowed convulsively, looking from his hand to Horatio’s face, serene in slumber.

“More things on heaven and earth, Horatio,” he breathed. “What have you gotten yourself into?”  
***  
The next day, Horatio remained in the cell after lunch, claiming he had a headache and that the sun hurt his eyes. He was pale still, and shivering slightly despite it being the height of the day. He refused to go to the sickroom, or to allow Archie to remain with him in the cell; he wished only to be alone and to sleep until the light was not quite so bright, he said. And, having been struck by the seed of an idea in the midst of Horatio's dissembling, Archie agreed to go out and leave him in peace.

He went into the courtyard, where the men were gathered as ever, trading tales and racing bugs or dozing in the sunlight. Ordinarily Horatio's propriety held the two officers at some distance from the crewmen, save for daily questions regarding health and morale and a general inspection for signs of slovenliness. Today, though, Archie walked over to where Matthews and Styles were sitting and idly scratching lines in the dust. They moved to stand as he approached and he waved them off, leaning against the wall beside them.

"Where's Mr. Hornblower this afternoon, sir?" Styles asked after a moment, scratching a surprisingly even circle in the dirt. "Not unwell, I hope."

"He's been a mite quiet these past few days," Matthews added, squinting up at Archie.

Archie shrugged, wondering briefly if, while he was away, Horatio had methodically worked his way along and brought each member of this crew back from the brink of death, as he had Archie himself, to inspire such consistent concern and loyalty amongst them. "Just a bit of a headache, he said."

They nodded and went back to their scratching, giving Archie puzzled sidelong glances as he continued to stand and observe them.

"Did you need something, sir?" Matthews asked at last, tilting his head back to study Archie, a keen look in his faded blue eyes. _They can be sharp for all that they're pressed, Kennedy,_ Archie thought, _and he's been watching young officers fail to be subtle since before you were born._

"You've both been all over a good bit of the world, haven't you?" he asked at last, prompting a murmured pair of "aye, sir"s. "And drank a pint with sailors from a good bit more, I suppose. You must have heard a great many wild stories."

"Oh, yes, sir," Matthews said with a smile. "Any tar worth his pay's got a sack full of tales that could turn your hair white."

"You looking for any kind of story in particular, Mr. Kennedy?" Styles asked, grinning at the shapes he was still sketching in the dirt. "Funny, scary, maybe with a girl or three?"

"Styles," Matthews hissed, but Archie just smiled and tapped the heel of his hand against the wall. _Play your cards carefully, Kennedy._

"Ghost stories," he said lightly. "I was wondering if you knew any ghost stories."

They glanced at each other and then up at him, confusion on their faces. "What sort of ghost stories, sir?" Matthews asked at last.

Archie shrugged, trying to keep his expression casual. "Have you ever heard any about female ghosts, which, if they...give you something, it turns to seaweed when it's away from you? A lock of their hair, perhaps. For example."

They looked even more puzzled, though Archie could tell that both were mentally sorting through their sacks of tales for anything of the sort. "What's put something like that into your head, Mr. Kennedy?" Styles asked.

Archie shrugged. "Oh, I heard some sailors in an inn telling a story like that a long time ago, in Portsmouth. Only heard that bit of it, wondered what the rest might be. You know there's not much to do in here but sit about and remember old half-heard tales and wonder on things."

"That's certain, sir," Matthews clasping his gnarled old hands over his knees. "Let's see...there's a number of stories like that, aren't there, Styles?"

"Oh, aye." He nodded, frowning a little. "Seems like every port's got its own, just a bit different...most of 'em about girls that drowned. Before their weddings, you know. The man betrays her, she never gets her vows, and she resents it something bitter."

"Haunts the spot where she drowned, looking for revenge," Matthews added. "Drowns men who stumble across it. Just mad stories, sir, nothing in them."

"They always drown the men?" Archie asked, forgetting his casual pose for a moment. "Never decide they might like to...keep one?"

"Keep one, sir?" Matthews looked utterly baffled, but Styles was nodding.

"I heard it like that once. The girl decided she was going to have her a husband one way or another. Russian bloke, was the one that told it--big as a bear. Good drinker, that one, but wouldn't buy a round for anyone else. Cheap bastard."

"How did that story end?" Archie asked, trying again for a casual voice but perhaps failing, from the sharp look Styles gave him. "I think perhaps it's the one I heard."

"The lad's sister saved him," Styles said, breaking his stick in half and tossing it away. "Cornered the creature and wouldn't let it get back to its pond, then lit a fire and dried out the ghost's hair. It crumpled up and died once its hair dried out, the man said. And the brother and sister went back to their village."

"Country-folk superstition, sir," Matthews said, looking up at Archie with a frown. Apparently Archie had played his hand after all, enough that they both thought him a bit mad. _Probably thought that since the day they got here. At least you're not sobbing and drooling on yourself anymore, so plain madness is still an improvement._

"Thank you, men," he said, turning away. "Carry on."

Perhaps he might once have found it peculiar, but now it seemed only right--very right--that he should hear the moan and sigh of the sea in his mind at all times. The pulse of the waves and the tides, the heartbeat of the world; he heard it now as clearly as he had when he rode in the belly of Indefatigable, and just as there, the gentle sound sang him to sleep at night and echoed as a constant in his hearing throughout the day.

The others couldn't hear it, he knew, and he knew that he himself had not been able to discern the sound from within the walls of the fortress before, not until she had helped him to uncover his ears.

He heard the sea the same way he felt the blood moving in his own veins, heard it calling him back to itself. _Calling me home_ , he sometimes thought, and _calling me to her_ at others, and both seemed equally correct.

Perhaps he might once have found that peculiar as well, but now it seemed only right.

Through the murmur of the sea in his mind, he heard the door clang open and the sound of footsteps on the floor. He opened his eyes; the light he had found so harsh and painful earlier in the day had dimmed somewhat, enough that he was comfortable. Archie stood just inside the doorway, his hands in his pockets, studying Horatio with an expression of raw worry. Horatio felt a familiar constriction in his chest, looking at Archie: Archie was so lovely, and seemed so sad. He should not be worried or sad. Horatio wanted nothing more than to gather Archie into his arms, kiss him gently, tell him there was no need for sorrow or worry. He wanted to replace Archie's fears with gasps of pleasure, as she had done for him.

But Archie had asked him not to touch or kiss, and Horatio had no wish to add to his friend's distress. Entirely the opposite. He would find a way to ease Archie's burden in time, he was quite sure; until then, he would remain a safe distance away, and only be kind to him.

"How are you feeling, Horatio?" Archie asked, his brow creased with concern. Horatio's fingers itched to smooth the lines away, to make them stop marring that lovely face.

But he only smiled, with all of the joy and contentment in his heart, wishing Archie could feel the same. "Quite well. Thank you."

Archie nodded and scuffed the heel of his boot against the floor, frowning. "Are you to have dinner with the Don tonight?"

"I'm not certain--" Horatio cut off as he heard the fortress bell ring to mark the hour. Was that the time already? How had he possibly been so careless? Where had his mind gone to? "I have to go." He swung his legs over the side of the bunk, nearly sliding to the floor entirely as he fumbled about for his shoes. "I have to go. I'll be late."

"Late for what, Horatio?" Archie asked, a sharp huff of frustrated laughter in the words. Horatio felt a hot rush of anger, impatience at Archie's foolishness. He did not want to be angry with Archie--he should never be angry with Archie--but he could not bear to be delayed.

"My walk," he muttered, getting to his feet and reaching for his jacket. "My hours of parole have begun--I must take my walk."

She was _waiting_. The blood throbbed in his temples. He would be late in arriving to see her. He would worry her, she would miss him, this could not be tolerated.

"Horatio, you're not well." Archie reached for his arm, moving to stop him, and Horatio jerked away. He must not be delayed.

"I'm fine," he said, his voice sounding cold and sharp as a gun-crack to his own ears. His stomach twisted unhappily at the shock in Archie's eyes, but there was no _time_ , damn it, no time for kindness. "I only needed that bit of rest. I'm very well now. I need to go walk. Excuse me."

"But Horatio," Archie tried, "you did not appear in the yard this afternoon. You didn't see the crew, and yet you're going for a walk--what will the men think?"

"The men?" Horatio stared at him, too puzzled to care that his face must have looked vacant and foolish. He had no idea what Archie could possibly mean. _What will the men think?_ Let them think as they would. He was needed in the cave on the coast. She was waiting.

Giving Archie another puzzled look, he knocked at the door and after a moment one of the guards appeared to let him out. He saw that Archie's face had grown even more concerned, and he was sorry, but there was no time, simply none...

He raced along the path so quickly, he grew clumsy, slipping on the gravel and falling, bloodying his hands. It was all right--she forgave him his tardiness and took his hands in her own, small and fine and cold, and the pain stopped in short order. Everything stopped. There was only her, and the moan of the waves, and contentment so absolute, it seemed as if his heart would burst.  
***  
Archie had lost count of precisely how many days it had been, how long Horatio had been under this spell. He was now coldly certain that that was the circumstance at play; he had exhausted every rational explanation his anxious mind had been able to offer, and therefore only the irrational remained. As much as it galled the reasonable man and officer in him to consider tales of ghosts and magic, the wide-eyed boy who had loved the theater continued to nod emphatically in the back of his mind, tugging at Archie's coat-sleeve and insisting that the fantastic was the only explanation that stuck.

He lay in his cot, staring at the ceiling. Horatio was out again. If the guards had not let him go, Archie was not entirely certain that Horatio wouldn't have gnawed through the bars on the window to escape. The day before, it had rained, and only their flat refusal to unlock the door had kept Horatio from going out in it. Nothing short of violence would have prevented him from taking his walk a second day in a row.

 _It's not about the damned **walk**_.

No. It was about a ghost, a dead girl bent on seduction. Archie found a trace of humor--only a trace, but it was his nature to find what he could--in the fact that even with dark magic at one's disposal, it took a bloody long time to turn Mr. Hornblower's head.

 _Not that I want to turn his head. Or any other part of his anatomy._ He scowled a the ceiling, at himself. _I only want him to be himself again. Want to get that thing's hands off him._

Hands or fins or whatever the hell she had. There were more dry curls of seaweed on the floor around Horatio's bunk. The part of Archie's mind that was bound and determined to find some kind of a laugh here, however bleak, wondered if perhaps Horatio's enchanting lover was a porpoise.

The flash of grim amusement soon faded. The mental image of Horatio locked in congress with a dolphin, horribly fascinating in its own right, did nothing to solve the problem of breaking the spell. _If the general lines of the story are the same the world over, perhaps the means of killing it are the same as well. Confront the thing. Threaten it with fire. Dry out its hair and it crumbles to dust._

Problematic, given that he could not stir beyond the courtyard and his cell. After the trip to the village, he had not requested parole again, and Don Massaredo had not offered. He would have to find a way to broach the subject, and do so himself, as he was quite sure Horatio would not be eager to have company along for his trysts with the dead.

 _Does he know? He must not--he couldn't possibly continue going to her if he knew._ No; the euphoria suggested complete and subtle coercion. Whatever this creature's romantic woes in life, she had Horatio well in hand now.

 _My compliments to her,_ Archie thought darkly, scowling at the ceiling again. His thoughts ran in circles and went nowhere. He was wasting time. He was--

Time.

He sat upright and listened for a moment. The voices in the corridor, idly chatting in Spanish, were those of the evening guards. Horatio was late again.

He looked over at the window, at the fading spill of light across the floor, and did a quick mental calculation. It was nearly sunset. Horatio was an hour overdue.

He got to his feet slowly, his thoughts beginning to turn faster, sparking and throwing ideas that came together as intricately as any playwright or naval hero could hope for. He could only pray that the Don was no fan of the theater, and thus susceptible to the persuasive efforts of a rank amateur with nothing but sincere motivations to convince him that he should be let outside the prison walls. And then, that he could extend the performance long enough to evade the squadron of soldiers the Don was sure to send with him out into the dark.  
***  
He had never minded the cold before, but this time it was different. It cut away inside him like knives, no longer comforting and numbing but a raw form of agony, slicing through him from fingertips to ankles, gnawing away at his guts and his mind.

He curled up smaller on the floor of the cave, wracked and shivering, begging as best he could through numb lips and chattering teeth. Her arms were around him, not a gentle embrace but a confinement, and she murmured constantly in his ear.

He could hear her voice now--truly hear it, beyond his fancies. It was low and dark and cold, like the cave itself. She spoke in Spanish, but there was still an echo of her voice inside his head, the echo he'd been hearing all this time and always understood. _God, it's so cold._

Her tongue teased the curve of his ear as she spoke pressed close against him. "Shh, shh...why so scared, my love? Relax, don't fight me so."

He shook harder, the only motion he seemed capable of. He wanted nothing so much as to struggle, to fight, to run away, but such things were as far beyond him now as the moon.

"You've given me so much." Her lips grazed his cheek, unbearable cold in a kiss, cold so intense the only sense his mind could make of it was as burning pain. "Strength from your own body. Heat. Life." She nuzzled at his neck and wrapped her arms tighter, holding him still, helpless as a baby. "Let me give you eternity."

Another wave of pain shot through his body, and he gave a strangled cry, forcing it past lips that cracked and bled. She pulled away from him, apparently disliking the sound, letting him fall to floor as she stood and began to pace around the cave.

"Not long now," she said. "High tide, my love, at high tide it will all be over."

"One way or another," came a voice from the mouth of the cave, accompanied by a sudden burst of light. It was too much for Horatio's mind and body to bear; he fled to the safety of unconsciousness, crumpled on the stony floor.  
***  
Archie stepped back into the cave, raising the torch he carried. "High tide is actually not for hours, miss," he said, first in English and then again in Spanish as she glared at him in furious incomprension. "I suppose you reckon time a bit differently. Just how long _has_ it been since you died?"

"Longer than you have been alive," she said, tossing her head. He nodded, still working his way back toward her. She blinked rapidly, averting her eyes from the torch, but didn't step away from where Horatio lay.

"You must have grown very lonely," he said, stepping up onto the rock shelf. She took a small step back at last, raising a hand to shield her eyes from the light. "I understand that."

"You do not," she said, shaking her head furiously. "You know nothing of being betrayed and alone."

He smiled slightly and continued to advance, forcing her back inch by inch. "More than you'd think."

She made a hissing sound and retreated back into the shadows, far enough that he could lower the torch and kneel at Horatio's side. He rolled Horatio onto his back and checked his pulse and breathing, frowning at the shallowness of both.

"You don't want him," Archie said patiently, angling his body so she couldn't see him shaking Horatio's shoulder, trying to wake him. "You won't be happy."

"Yes, we will." She paced restlessly in her corner, in the shadows, and he let go of Horatio to face her, raising the torch a bit higher. "He loves the sea. I hear it in him, in his heart. I will take him to live under the water, and we will be happy."

Archie couldn't help it; he laughed out loud. "Oh, dear lady, you have him all wrong."

Horatio stirred a bit, whimpering. Both Archie and the woman looked at him as his body began to shiver again. Archie spoke faster, louder, moving again to block her line of sight.

"He doesn't love the sea, he loves the ships above it, and his duty above even them. The sea isn't anything. It is simply there. He doesn't love it, and he doesn't love you. He loves his duty." He rested his hand on Horatio's chest, feeling the heartbeat just a bit stronger than before. "Above all else, he loves that."

She shook her head triumphantly. "He has forgotten that. All of those things gave him pain and worry--I made him forget. I took them away and made him happy. You would see him miserable again?"

"You made him happy by cutting off his mind," Archie said through clenched teeth, shaking Horatio again, trying to prompt him to open his eyes. Gentleness had no effect, so he tried more force, frantically searching his memory for something, anything, that might help. "Cut off his self. That isn't happiness, my lady, and he would be no husband to you as you've made him. A person is made of joy and fear both, not only one or the other--"

"Be quiet," she growled, and he looked up at her again. She had moved closer to the light, rigid with fury, her eyes blazing. "He is mine, to do with as I wish. If you persist, I will kill him. I will stop his heart where he lies."

"Isn't that your plan anyway?" he asked, scrabbling at the buckle of Horatio's belt, bending the tine until it snapped from the rest of the metal. "Isn't that why you're waiting for high tide?"

Two things bound the mind to the body most tightly, in Archie's experience: pleasure and pain. No time for pleasure; that was an art. Pain, on the other hand, was a tool.

"I need no tide to kill him," she said, sounding almost offended by his stupidity. "I need the tide to complete the change."

Whatever that meant, he had no interest; he took the little spike of metal in one hand and Horatio's palm in the other, slashing the sharp broken end across the skin. The shock of pain ought to snap Horatio back to himself--

No blood came to the surface. Archie stared in fascinated horror as the skin parted easily for the metal, sea water bubbling out in its wake, much more than the blood that would have come from such a small wound, soaking into Archie's breeches and splashing across the floor.

Horatio cried out softly, his body convulsing under Archie's hands. The woman laughed.

"You see? He is half-changed. He is more mine than yours now, sir, and I will have him."

Archie stared at the wound, still weeping salt water, and then at Horatio's face, contorted in pain. He stood slowly, turning from his friend, letting the piece of the buckle fall forgotten to the floor as he advanced on the woman slowly, deliberately, and spoke.

"Change him back."

She laughed, tossing her head again, and either she was losing control in her annoyance or she no longer cared what he saw, because her hair was dense clumps of seaweed now, rotten green and tangled. "Or what? I can kill him in a moment, with a thought. He has given me nearly all of his strength. He hardly holds to life at all, now."

"Change him back," Archie said again, taking another deliberate step. She held her ground, but glanced anxiously at the torch moving closer to her, flickering in the damp air but still burning bright. "If you don't...if you kill him or if you just keep waiting for the tide, I will go out on the beach and find driftwood. I'll use my coat, and his, and everything else I have with me. I'll build a wall of fuel right across here--" he gestured at the edge of the stone shelf, above the reach of the tidewater "--and I'll set it alight. I'll fill this cave with smoke and heat and I'll dry it out, dry _you_ out, and it will be a funeral pyre for him as well, but you will _not_ take him, do you understand? He _is not yours_."

He was close enough to her to hear the hiss and sizzle of the torch's heat catching the moisture in her skin and hair. She stared at him, her eyes narrowing, and he had no idea if she could kill him where he stood, but he'd be damned if he'd look a coward by backing down.

Horatio would do the same for him.

"You would take him back to be miserable again?" she asked, drawing herself up and lifting her chin, the snarl of her hair smoothing as he watched, suddenly the image of haughty dignity instead of primal rage. She must have been a lady indeed, in life. "You would deny him peace of mind?"

"I would have him be himself," Archie replied, not taking his eyes from her as she glanced back over at Horatio. "Restless mind and all. There's a chance, after all, that he might come round to happiness on his own."

She looked from Horatio to him and back again, a frown crossing her features. She stepped closer to Archie, studying him, her demeanor of fierce certainty faltering. "You will not turn from him."

"No." She had not asked a question; he answered anyway. "I will not."

"Loyalty. It is a rare trait in a man." She walked past him, not sparing another glance, the tangled leaves of her hair hissing and spitting softly in the sudden silence. She knelt at Horatio's side for a moment, reaching out her hand to touch his forehead as if in benediction.

"Very well," she said. "He is not mine. And so he is yours." She withdrew her hand, and a flash of light seemed to leap from her fingertips to Horatio.

He screamed, a raw and anguished sound that echoed in the cave, and his body arched from the ground in a spasm of agony. Archie nearly dropped the torch, lunging toward them, but she had risen to her feet and stepped away, off of the ledge and toward where the water was stretching across the floor.

"Perhaps someday he will remember what it is to hear the sea and be happy," she said, and her body turned to water before Archie's eyes, falling down and lost to the rising tide.

He had no time to stare or wonder. Horatio was still again, pale as death and scarcely breathing. The only good sign that Archie could see, and it seemed strange to call it so, was that the wound on his hand was now leaking blood.  
***  
He dreamed of water, as he had for so long now, of himself lying underneath the great press of the sea and staring up through the water at the sun. The surface and the light were so far away, and he always spent these dreams so tired and cold; it had never been worth the effort to try to swim up and rejoin the world.

But now, somehow, the water was warm. He was warm, and he found that he could move if he tried. So he pushed his way through the water, swimming up and up toward the light, breaking the surface and taking in a great lungful of air as he woke.

His eyes snapped open and he nearly choked on a fit of coughing.

When he regained control of himself, he looked cautiously around. He was not in the rough-hewn bunk in the cell he shared with Archie; this was an unfamiliar bed. Yet he recognized the fireplace, and the placement of the door...he'd certainly _been_ in this room before, and if his mind would just clear a bit he would have the answer...

He was lying on his side, and shifted onto his back to see more clearly. The movement made him aware that someone else was in the bed with him, with an arm slung lightly around his waist, and the shock of _that_ caused him to lie very still for a moment with his eyes tightly closed while he silently and frantically searched his memory for any clues as to what in God's name might be going on.

He remembered the village, and being helplessly furious with Archie and himself at once. He remembered walking on the beach, finding a cave--a girl?--and then everything was blurry and indistinct. The best he could recall were vague images and ideas: being cold, the sound of the ocean, hands sliding across his flesh, a feeling of anxiety and yearning, Archie's mouth warm and soft against his own--

 _Archie? Did I--no, that's impossible, I would never have kissed Archie and he would not have permitted it if I had tried._

The uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach suggested that perhaps the truth was not quite so easy as that.

He opened his eyes again, casting another glance around the room, and recognized it as the fortress's sickroom, the place where he had bullied and begged and coaxed Archie from his despair back to strength. Now it would seem that something had happened to Horatio himself, something severe enough to warrant taking him from his cell and placing him here, though he couldn't imagine what. And of course, there was the matter of the other person in bed with him.

He finally turned his head to identify his companion, though he was already certain that it was Archie. Who else, in this place? They had shared a bed before, on the odd shore leave when they were mids; having no brothers, those were the only times Horatio had ever spent the night with another body close to his. Perhaps that was why waking to find Archie there was not unsettling and did not seem strange, though it had been several years since the last time...

He watched Archie's face in the silvery early-morning light. If he had been ill, then Archie should not be so close; what if he fell sick as well? Archie should not be here, and Horatio should wake him and tell him to move away at once. But he had no desire to do so. He felt warm and oddly protected, with Archie's arm across his waist. If not for the layer of confusion atop his thoughts regarding his situation, he thought that he would be quite perfectly content to lie like this for as long as Archie wished.

Archie stirred after a few moments under Horatio's searching gaze, blinking slowly and squinting against the light. He focused on Horatio's face and smiled vaguely, taking his hand from Horatio's waist to rub at his eyes. "You're awake," he mumbled.

"Yes." Horatio pulled himself up a bit, to sit leaning back against the headboard, surprised by the wave of dizziness that followed the small movement.

"How do you feel?" Archie sat up as well, looking closely at Horatio's face. He grabbed one of Horatio's hands from the mattress and held it between his own for a moment, then nodded as if it had told him something important.

"All right," Horatio said, stretching the truth just a bit. From the look on Archie's face, he knew it. "I'm a bit--a bit dizzy. And confused. What's happened? Have I been ill?"

Archie chewed at his lower lip for a moment, studying Horatio critically, before apparently deciding not to answer either question. "Are you cold?"

Horatio blinked. "No. There's a fire going, and apparently you've been next to me all night."

That came out sharply, more so than he'd meant it to, and a dangerous glint came into Archie's eyes. "You were nearly frozen when we got you in here last night. I got in bed with you because it was the only way to make you stop shivering."

"Oh." He shifted uncomfortably under the cool glare. "I...frozen, you say?"

"Hm." Archie raised his eyebrows and nodded. "You've not the faintest memory of what happened, do you?"

"Nothing...distinct," he said, rubbing his palms against the blanket. "Some vague ideas that don't make sense. Was there...was there a girl?" He would not ask about the hazy memories of a kiss; best if they were left forever unconfirmed.

"A girl.” Archie chuckled, the sound sharp and harsh in the quiet room. “You remember the girl." He turned to look over at the window. "As far as the Don and the guards are concerned, you're ill because you fell and struck your head yesterday on your walk. You were lying one of the caves along the water, soaked through."

Horatio frowned. "And that is not the truth?"

"Not precisely. You were in the cave and you were soaked through, but you were ill well before yesterday."

"Archie..." He hesitated, trying to find a way to phrase the question that wouldn't make him sound more than half mad. "Archie, what day _is_ it?"

Archie's eyebrows lifted even higher, but he was smiling now, a very slight but distinct smirk. "Remember going to the village, Horatio?"

He felt heat rising into his face. That damned trip to the village. That was what had sent him hurtling along the path by the water toward the caves, like an idiot. "Yes."

"That was at least two weeks ago."

He felt his jaw fall open, knew he was gawking at Archie like a fool, but simply couldn't stop himself. "Two--two _weeks_?"

"Did you never have a nurse to tell you stories about what happens to young men who listen to mysterious young women in caves, Horatio?" Archie was still smirking, and ordinarily Horatio would have been furious, but the notion of time simply vanishing like smoke and leaving no trace in his memory was too much for him to bear. His stomach clenched as a chill swept through his body, and he felt the blood draining from his face again.

He dimly heard Archie saying his name, but his world had narrowed to drawing each breath in turn, and struggling not to be sick, not to allow his stomach to betray him as apparently his mind had done. He hadn't the strength to fight it, though; he shuddered violently and blindly caught the chamber pot Archie thrust into his hands, just in time.

He felt Archie's arm about his shoulders when he regained control of himself, Archie's other hand gentle against his hair, smoothing it back from his forehead. "Easy, Horatio," he murmured, "there you are, it's all right." He pulled away for a moment, and Horatio shivered despite himself, angry and baffled and suddenly chilled. "Here," Archie said, holding a cup of water in front of Horatio's face. "Drink."

Horatio took the cup slowly, glancing back at Archie's face, puzzled by the odd familiarity of the words but unable to place them. From the little smile that had replaced the smirk on Archie's face, he knew perfectly well where they came from.

"Archie, what happened?" he asked plaintively, taking a sip of water and wincing at the taste. "What happened to me?"

Archie's hand alighted on Horatio's back again, rubbing gently up and down his spine. "You had a bit of a run-in with the supernatural, Horatio. Managed to get a spell put on yourself. But you're all right now."

"A spell?" Horatio shook his head, clinging to skepticism as it presented itself as an alternative to terror. "Archie, you're--"

"If you tell me that I'm raving, Mr. Hornblower, I shall empty that chamber pot over your head. Kindly keep in mind which of us can remember the last two weeks and which cannot." His hand didn't cease in its soothing motions even through the sharp words.

Horatio ducked his head, struggling with the notion for a moment, trying to find a way to make it reconcile with reason. "You're certain?"

"Saw with my own eyes, Horatio." His hand settled at the base of Horatio's neck, a gentle pressure that Horatio found oddly reassuring. "Talked her out of keeping you for herself, which took all the skills of the Kennedy tongue, silver as it's famed to be."

He turned to look at Archie again. "Then I am in your debt."

Archie reached up and brushed his thumb along the curve of Horatio's eyebrow. "I should think it makes us even."

Horatio frowned, prepared to argue the issue, but Archie placed a finger over his lips and shook his head. "Let it be, Horatio. No need for debts here, hm? We're in prison, we've no need for ledger-books."

Horatio parted his lips to speak again, his tongue brushing against Archie's finger. Minor contact, utterly innocent, but Archie pulled his hand back, a strange look flickering across his face that suddenly abolished any and all hope Horatio had that the memories of a kiss were false.

Or had those been fears? The sudden rush of adrenaline in his veins certainly did not feel like a response to having hopes dashed. More that they were just now rising...

"Archie?" he asked, trying to catch his friend's eyes. "Archie, did I...under this spell, did I..."

"Best to forget all that, Horatio," Archie said, smile gone, his mouth set in a tight line now. "No harm done."

"I should hope there would be no harm." He frowned, reaching hesitantly to touch the back of Archie's hand. "I would never wish to hurt you, Archie."

"Of course not, Horatio. I know that. It's simply that..." He glanced at Horatio's face and then back down at their hands against the blanket. "You weren't yourself."

Horatio sighed, turning Archie's hand over and tracing his fingertips along the lines on his palm. "Perhaps not. But I...what I do remember of it is in no way unpleasant, Archie. Quite the opposite."

"Let it be, Horatio."

There was a note of warning in his voice, but Horatio pressed on. "Did you not like it?"

"Horatio, you scarcely remember it happened at all. Pretend it didn't. Let it be a dream."

He tried to pull his hand away, but Horatio caught his wrist. "You did not answer me."

"It doesn't matter. It wasn't you."

Horatio lifted Archie's hand and kissed the palm softly. "This is, Archie. I am entirely myself."

Archie stared at him, jaw still clenched, eyes stormy. Horatio leaned toward him, gaze flickering between Archie's lips and his eyes and back again. "Archie," he said softly, pleading. "May I?"

It was the faintest of nods, the barest motion of his head, but it was permission and Horatio took it, pressing his lips softly to Archie's. Brief and chaste, but a kiss nonetheless, and he pulled back with his a pounding heart, stunned by his own audacity.

Archie studied him for a moment, then licked his lips and leaned forward as well. "May _I_ , Horatio?"

Horatio startled himself even more with the fervor of his response. "Please."

This kiss was a bit less chaste, and a great deal less brief, and when they broke apart to breathe Horatio's heart was pounding so hard it left him faint.

Archie chuckled softly. "Lie back and rest, Mr. Hornblower. Your lady friend declared you to be mine, and as such I suppose I ought to make sure you take care of yourself. Rest and I'll see if I can't convince the guards to bring you some food."

Horatio caught Archie's wrist again as he moved to leave the bed. "She said that I was yours?"

"Yes. And you'll find that the Kennedys are terribly protective of what's ours." The look on Horatio's face made him hasten to continue. "I'm only joking, Horatio, it's not--"

"No." Horatio shook his head, holding Archie's gaze. "I am honored to be considered so."

Archie laughed again, but there was a certain brightness to his eyes. "So formal, Horatio. The honor is mine." He kissed Horatio's forehead softly and pulled his hand free. "Now rest and get better."

Horatio let him go, feeling his eyes sliding closed as he settled against the pillows. He was exhausted, but beneath that was a peace and contentment of astonishing depth. He could not recall ever knowing such a thing.

Some drowsy, distant part of his mind noted, as he fell asleep, that he could hear the distant sound of the sea.

**Author's Note:**

> The supernatural being in question is mainly based on the Russian _rusalka_ , but as noted, it's a fairly common mythological trope. The notion of drying out the hair to destroy it is specifically Russian.


End file.
